


Wheel of Westeros: Book Three Rise of the Raven Part Three

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [15]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Jon Snow, F/M, King Jon Snow, Three-Eyed Raven Bran Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23223247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: In the past, Bran learns something extraordinary about his aunt Lyanna. Jon gives his sister's husband a stern talking-to. Sansa makes meatloaf before a gathering in which mostly boring things happen, except the thing where her bastard brother becomes a king.
Relationships: Brandon Stark/Lyanna Stark, Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Howland Reed & Lyanna Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Val, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Meera Reed/Bran Stark
Series: Wheel of Westeros [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	1. 1

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Three: Rise of the Raven Part Three**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Bran

It is a thought of Meera that finds Bran at Harrenhal just before the tourney. Meera was the one who told him the story of the mystery knight, which he had quite forgotten. Until now. An unfolding mystery smells like Meera’s soft brown curls and feels like polished bronze scales.

The one on the ground looks like Jojen, Meera’s brother, who died when Summer did – both the wolf and the season. When the Three-Eyed Raven shut up Bran in the past. He is small and wears a shirt of bronze scales and green breeches. He tries to make himself smaller, while the three knights swing their legs to kick him. Sometimes the little crannogman manages deftly to roll out of the way, quick and light. Sometimes he doesn’t. _Maybe they are called knights_ , Bran thinks, _but they don’t behave as knights should. Someone should help him_ …but of course he knows someone will. Knowing the story and then seeing it happen feels like dodging a kick.

_Frogeater,_ the fat hedgehog knight bellows. _Go back to the Neck!_ He is dressed in red and black. He spits when he talks.

_Little man…you don’t belong here_ , the pitchfork knight says with his pitchfork teeth sticking out. His doublet is russet trimmed in black and gold. Bran can smell his breath.

It’s a Frey who doesn’t just kick the little crannogman…he tries to stomp upon him. Bran can tell he is a Frey because of his twin-towers sigil, but also his weaselly eyes. The crannogman has his hands between his legs, protecting the important things. The Frey leans down, picks up a clod of mud. He kneels and tries to stuff the mud into the crannogman’s mouth. The little man twists his neck to avoid it, clamping his mouth shut tight.

 _Stop!_ Bran wants to speak, but he has no mouth. His mouth is covered with a woolen wrap against the snow and cold between the Wall and home. What damage will that mouth do when he arrives? _Stop_ , a crow cries somewhere close to Jon. Or was it Bran? For a moment he feels the warmth of a fire in Jon’s cell at Winterfell. Steam. Wet skin. Meera’s skin is soft, but her lips are always split and chapped. He remembers how her face looked through a cloud of her breath in the cold – always a mist between them. Meera is at Winterfell, and there is a fast heartbeat in Jon’s ear.

_That’s my father’s bannerman you’re kicking!_

Aunt Lyanna is wearing a gown of blue linen with sleeves puffed at the shoulder and widened at the wrist, trimmed with silver embroidery that shimmers in the light. The dress is cinched in the middle with a braid of silver thread, and her cape is trimmed with gray fur. Her hair is so very very long – hanging way past her hips, the top part in a dark braid that’s wound around her head and woven through with little blue flowers – forget-me-nots. In the story told by Meera, she held a tourney sword, but there is no such sword in Lyanna’s hands. The Frey, whose face is pointy and round in all the wrong places, laughs at her.

_This green turd? What use could the old wolf possibly have for him?_

To their credit, the hedgehog and the pitchfork look at him cautioning eyes, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

_I’m warning you…leave him alone. If you don’t, my lord father will fine you good!_

The Frey chuckles even harder at that. The hedgehog pulls at his elbow, trying to lead him away, but the Frey squirms away from him, laughing derisively. The little crannogman has started to get up, slapping dirt and bits of grass from his knees and behind, but the Frey knocks him down again. Bran hates this man. Perhaps he is drunk, but that’s no excuse. Injustice in the past tastes like a mouthful of mud.

_Lord Stark can’t fine me! He’s no liege lord of mine. I’m just trying to see if they can breathe mud like the stories say…_

The Frey bends as if to pick up another clump of mud, but then he stops suddenly, halted by a mild convulsion – so small that his friends don’t notice at first. Then all at once, he doubles over and makes a sound as if to retch. A shower of coins – halfgroats as far as Bran can tell – spews forth in a jangling shower. The crannogman, the hedgehog and the pitchfork, all stare with wide eyes. The Frey looks down at the pile of coins at his feet in awe. Sweat gathers on his forehead. Terror in the past is ghostskin in a stinking swamp. Lyanna stands very still with her arms at her sides. She stares pointedly at the Frey, and though the day is quite still, the sleeves and skirt of her gown seem to blow in some errant wind. Again, the Frey is wracked with convulsions, and another stream of halfgroats flies from his mouth. He begins to cry, though he is a man grown. The hedgehog and pitchfork back slowly away. The crannogman is sitting up, looking at Lyanna, then the Frey, and then Lyanna again.

_My father will have his fine all right. Do you see?_

The Frey opens his mouth as if to respond, his eyes two shabby pits of fear, but only another shower of halfgroats comes out. Then another, then another.

At the same time, Bran and the Crannogman shout: _Stop! Stop! **[1]**_

Somewhere Jon is being a husband, and the walls of Winterfell have borne bubbly ice demons. The sea has turned to bathwater. The bathwater is full of tears.

_Stop…you have to stop…_

Lyanna looks right in Bran’s direction then, and for a moment, he is sure that she sees him. Her eyes are cold and mean and gray, like a sword.

_I will not father a bastard…_

Finally, she turns away. The so-called knights have run away, whispering _witch!_ Lyanna helps the crannogman up and holds his hand while they walk in silence to her tent. When they are gone, the pile of halfgroats fades and disappears.

In the past, honor looks like forget-me-nots.

Chapter 2: BOW

At night, the sounds of women weeping throughout the castle kept Jon awake, even when the moon had gone dark. Val slept next to him, hearing nothing, wrapped warmly in the furs on their newly stuffed bed. Jon’s cell was tiny and still stank of smoke, but it was warm, and Val didn’t complain. It seemed to Jon she said very little at all, but that was all right. Her body spoke to him enough when he collapsed onto the bed at night, after a day of digging, hauling, carrying and hunting. Though he was usually asleep before his head hit the pillow, Val would edge into him, nuzzling and pushing until his eyes opened again, pulling his breeches open and pulling him to her. They made love very quietly and slowly, and afterward Val would fall into a deep sleep, while Jon lay awake and listened to the sounds of the people and animals of Winterfell. Often they were sad sounds, or hungry sounds, or angry sounds.

On this particular evening, as Val slept with her back to him, he heard something else: distress. A whimpering, endangered peal. Jon’s ears seemed to throb and twitch, focusing on the sound that grew louder and more insistent. _Sansa_ , he thought. He was almost certain that Harrold had beaten her. He heard Harrold’s voice in the dark, too, but the woman’s voice he heard was not Sansa’s.

…please…

…why not do this easy…

…hurting me…

…don’t make it harder….needs to be…

…please don’t…

It was Lady Randa’s voice he heard, the Royce woman who Sansa had made her lady-in-waiting. Jon rose and dressed silently, holding a finger to his lips at King, who flapped his wings but held in his squawking. Jon sheathed his dagger and slipped out of the cell without a sound. He followed the cries and whimpering, and the sharp demands that came from Sansa’s husband, all the way to a solar that currently doubled as a washing room and a room for Randa to sleep in when Mya Stone was sleeping with Sansa in the Lord’s chambers. The door was shut and locked, but he could hear what was happening on the other side as clearly as if it were being screamed into his ear.

“Think of it as a favor to your mistress,” Harrold was saying. “Or don’t. See if I care…”

“Harrold have mercy, please,” Randa said. She was crying.

“For the sake of the gods stop moving! It will be over before you know it, believe me.”

Randa made a pained sound, and Jon immediately pounded on the door.

“Who in Seven Hells is that?” Harrold demanded. “You were expecting someone else?”

“No! I have no idea who that could be.”

“Don’t lie. Who is he?”

“I don’t know, I swear!”

“We’ll just see about that.”

Then Harrold opened the door wide and faced Jon, his dimpled cheeks flushed. He rolled his deep blue eyes and scoffed in righteous disgust, turning to Randa, who stood in the corner looking horrified. Her face was red and wet with tears, and she clutched her bodice to keep it together over her ample bosoms. Her curly brown hair was so disheveled that some of it was in her mouth.

“Really now,” Harrold said. “The Bastard? Who won’t you accept in your bed?”

Jon stepped into the room as Harrold turned to face him.

“Just you wait,” Harrold said. “Just wait until I tell Lady Sansa about…”

Jon slammed his fist hard into the side of Harrold’s face near the temple. His brother-in-law wore a look of surprise for a second or two before falling onto one knee and then face first onto the stone floor unconscious. Randa gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.

“On the first floor near the door with the broken hinges there’s a length of rope,” Jon told her. “Go and get it, my lady.”

“Oh Jon…sir…shouldn’t we…”

“Go!”

While Randa fetched the rope, Jon pulled a chair over to where Harrold lay with his mouth hanging open, a cut seeping blood and a lump rising where Jon had hit him. His nightshirt had drifted up, and Jon could see his cock and balls were out of his breeches. When Randa returned, he ordered her to help him sit Harrold’s limp body in the chair and hold him while Jon tied his hands behind him, then tied him to the chair around the middle. As Jon was tying his feet to the legs of the chair, Harrold stirred and woke, then seemed to take stock of the situation before he spoke.

“Jon,” he said, clearing his throat. “May I call you Jon? Listen, I think we’ve gotten off on entirely the wrong foot…”

In one swift motion, Jon stood and clamped his hand onto Harrold’s throat hard, squeezing it just enough to shut him up.

“Go on to bed with your mistress, my lady, and say nothing,” Jon told Randa. His voice came out like a growl.

“Sir…” Randa stammered. “…do you want me to…”

“Now!”

Randa obeyed without another word, leaving Jon with Sansa’s husband, who was now choking slightly, gasping for air. Jon loosened his grip. Harrold gulped in a few desperate breaths.

“I…know…what…what you must be thinking,” he gasped.

“Do you now.”

“It isn’t what it looks like, I assure you. I came down…for Lady Sansa…to find some…oh my dear gods _no_ …”

Jon pulled his dagger from its sheath and held it out so the point just barely touched the apple of Harrold’s throat, which bobbed up and down frantically.

“I heard what you were doing.”

“Whatever you think you heard, listen to me…this is a mistake, all right? Your sister is the light of my life…I would do anything for her…absolutely _anything_. Ask her and she’ll tell…”

Jon seized a handful of Harrold’s golden hair from the top of his head and yanked him back, placing the edge of the dagger against his neck.

“Seven Hells _don’t kill me please_ ,” Harrold gasped.

“ _Shut up then_.” [2]

“All right… _please_ …”

Jon slowly released him. He walked around the chair and stood facing Harrold again, with the point of the dagger at his gut. Jon could feel his panicked breath on his wrist. He reeked of fear and guilt – a smell of burning fat and owl feathers mixed with some acrid lordly perfume he wore.

“Now look. I don’t like you, understand me?” Jon said.

“Of course I understand completely… _completely_ …”

Jon hooked a thread of Harrold’s shirt with the tip of the dagger and pulled it up, exposing the parts that had shrunken slightly from his terror. “I know Sansa isn’t happy,” he said. “I know it’s because of you.”

“Yes of course. It’s my fault…and I’m terribly sorry…” Harrold rasped and squirmed, trying and failing to bring his legs together.

“That’s right.” Jon turned the dagger and stabbed the chair between Harrold’s thighs with a loud thunk, less than an inch away from his quivering scrotum.

Harrold sucked in a long, whiny breath. “ _Heavens help me_ …” he whimpered.

“Now I understand how difficult Lady Sansa can be,” Jon said. “I grew up with her.”

“Of course…whatever you say…please!”

“But if again you even think about dishonoring her, or her ladies, or any female in Winterfell for that matter, including the animals, I will _cut you like a fish from groin to gullet.”_

Jon pulled the dagger out of the chair and made like to stab Harrold in the belly, but he closed his fist and rammed his knuckles into him instead. Harrold coughed and groaned, trying without success to mutter _I swear_.

“And should I hear Sansa weeping? Should I see a bruise or smell anything amiss on my sister’s person…”

He punched Harrold with an uppercut to the jaw once, then twice. A tooth went flying onto the floor, and a line of blood hung from Harrold’s lips to his very shrunken cock. He then leaned over and whispered into Harrold’s ear. “ _I’ll do the same… and then I’ll roast you alive and eat you.”_

“ _Oh fuck me_ …” Harrold was sobbing.

“What do you have to say then?”

“ _Gods help me._ Okay. All right. I swear I won’t harm her. I’ll be faithful. I swear it. I love Sansa. I do…please believe me.

“And you’ll say nothing to her about this, either. You took a tumble down the turret stair…do you hear me?”

“Yes…please… let me go.”

Jon untied him and watched him stumble and run out the door, leaving a trail made of droplets of blood and urine behind him.

Chapter 3: Sansa

Sansa couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed by the state of the feast they had to offer the Northern Lords as they gathered in the Great Hall. It was bad enough that, as much work as she and her ladies and their crew had put into cleaning up the Bolton bastard’s mess, it still smelled like smoke and unwashed soldiers. The feast was sad and pathetic by necessity – they couldn’t afford to throw a lavish feast every time they hosted a gathering. Sansa herself along with Randa, Mya, six Wildling women and a couple of new Wintertown girls had worked for hours to make everything that could be made from turnips and potatoes. They made them into medallions, baked them whole, mashed them, flattened them into cakes, boiled them in butter and rosemary, fried them in chunks. What meat they could scrape off of what had frozen or rotted or been damaged, including a couple of horses they had found frozen to the ground in the burned stables, they pounded and smashed together with crushed stale bread, eggs, onions, sage, thyme, parsley, salt and pepper and lumped it together until they had enough for all. Carrots were roasted in butter and garlic and made into a soup that went further with a lot of milk and water. It was a poor, piteous feast indeed. On the other hand, after the way these Lords had turned on her, Sansa couldn’t help but think they could go right to each of the Seven Hells and count themselves lucky they were fed and not hanged.

Sansa hadn’t had time to finish a new gown in the Stark colors, so she wore the black velvet with a black leather corset-belt around her waist. Maddy brushed her hair until it gleamed, and she wore her braid to the side like Princess Val wore hers. She wasn’t sure how else to show solidarity with the Wildlings before the Lords of the North. Mors Crowfood, a huge old man with a huge white beard and a dragonglass eye represented House Umber, and greeted Lord Stannis more warmly than anyone. Ser Davos and Ser Devan, along with Jon’s henchman Satin, sat on the side of the Hall reserved for the Freefolk generals, to show solidarity as Stannis and Jon had ordered. Jonelle Cerwyn had the nerve to show, and Sansa supposed she deserved an ear since she had lent them Maester Rhodry. The Manderlys took up a good portion of a whole bench, including the daughters Wynafryd and Wylla, who stared at Jon just as hungrily as their sire stared at the food. Maege Mormont was nearly healed, and sat surrounded by her fierce daughters. Howland Reed sat with his wife and daughter, all dressed smartly in green and bronze. Galbart Glover sat with his brother and his son, looking proud and puffed up just as if they hadn’t turned their nose up at Sansa in Greywater Watch when she asked for help. She supposed they couldn’t be accused of treason – just cowardice. The chiefs of the Mountain clans were there: the Wull, the Norreys, the Liddles and the Flints. Even old man Locke had appeared. They all looked askance at the Freefolk, whose names Sansa didn’t know, other than Tormund Giantsbane and Gerrick Kingsblood, the woman Morna, Tormund’s daughter Munda, and of course Val. Barbrey Ryswell showed, though she seemed to hide, and the Karstarks were absent. Sansa took her place at the head table along with Harrold, Jon and Stannis.

Jon in particular looked very imposing in black leather breeches and jerkin and the thick cloak Sansa had made for him. His wretched black bird was perched on his shoulder as well, and Ghost towered next to him, his red eyes glowing. Harrold was very quiet and nervous, possibly because of the wolf, but more probably he was embarrassed by the wounds on his face from a fall he took on one of the tower stairs. She’d had to force him to sit and let her clean the wounds and wrap them – there was a sizable cut on the side of one eye and inside his lip. _You must be more careful,_ she had scolded. _Oh don’t worry,_ Harrold had moaned. _I will be._ He had been behaving well for the most part, though he seemed often surly and had begun expressing impatience about getting down to Riverrun as soon as possible. He was drinking more than usual, which Sansa didn’t like at all, and not because they were low on everything, including wine. Some Wildling spearwives had begun to brew some rancid-smelling ale in the courtyard, and Sansa hoped to convince them to sell it if it was any good, and not keep it around for her half-brother and husband to pickle their brains in.

The question of food was in fact the first point of order when the austere feast was finished. Maester Rhodry’s ledger would read the following record of the negotiations:

  * ~~BOW~~ KON stated that an army consisting of the Others and legions of Wites necessitates the tribute of portion grain and root stores by all houses to WF forthwith
  * Objections by L Glover and La Cerwyn expressing disbelief in existence of said army
  * Met with confirmation of contact with Others and Wites by Sers Seaworth, numerous Wildling and seconded by L Stannis H Baratheon, concurring: Las Mormont and L Reed
  * So moved: stores to be moved to WF pending evacuation of Northren Territoryes
  * ~~BOW~~ kon suggested appeal to IBOB for loan: tabled further consideration
  * LOV H Hardyng suggested slaughter and portioning of giant boar citing lack of meat stores, met with strong opposition by ~~BOW~~ ,kon concurring numerous lords, ~~BOW~~ kon holding firm: issue tabled further consideration. ~~BOW~~ kon hackles quite raysed
  * LOW brought to the hall’s attn.: letter addressed to her from a Griff LO7K, claiming to be 1st son of Rhaegar H Targaryen, to arrive within a fortnight to discuss terms of peace. Much tumult and uprore from Hall
  * Objection Hs Glover, Cerwyn, Umber upon fear of possible invasion
  * LOW stated that the letter was cordial, containing offers of alliegance v. H Lannister
  * Objection (Hall): questions as to advantage
  * LOW suggested a movement of food stores from South
  * ~~BOW~~ kon stated H Lannister needed for use of Wyldfyre v. Others, but moves for a peaceful welcome with possibility of fealty
  * Objection (Hall) proof of inherence, suspicions re: H T: tabled further consideration
  * Confirmed stores of grain/roots to be extracted and moved to WF by the coming moon, all in favor with objection: H Glover…



Sansa’s cheeks were burning by the time the issue of food was dealt with. She was glad when all appeared to be settled, but realized quickly she had let herself breathe too soon. Of course, it was a Glover who stood up and made the only objection.

“Lady Stark, or rather Hardyng if you be called that…”

“Lady Sansa will do, my lord,” Sansa said stiffly. It was becoming more difficult to remember her courtesies.

“I’m afraid, Lady Sansa, I am willing to permit a portion of our grain stores be taxed from us for the benefit of our own protection by our liege, but must that portion account for these…”

He didn’t even say “Wildlings” or even “savages” but swept his enormous hand at them the way one would point out a stain on the floorboards.

“I swore allegiance to House Stark,” he continued. “And I will continue to serve House Stark. But I did not make any vow to feed Wildlings!”

The hall began to rumble and quake again. Some of the Freefolk rose menacingly, even as other houses grumbled in agreement. The Mormonts only nodded, however, and the Reeds were silent. Jon’s bird called out _Snow! Snow!_

“Lords and Ladies, please,” Sansa said. A joke regarding morbid obesity had leapt to her mind in response to Wyman Manderly in particular, but she held it back. “Our Wildling guests have behaved quite impeccably. They have been a great help to myself and my brother in the effort to restore the castle…”

“Forgive me, my lady, but these same savages would just as quickly turn on you and on us at the first opportunity,” Lady Cerwyn said. “At the first opportunity they would…”

“Forgive _me,_ Lady Cerwyn,” Sansa said. “But these ‘savages’ were by my side, by Jon’s side, when he was fighting for our home. Many Freefolk warriors died for Winterfell, while many of _you_ chose to abandon us. This feast, such as it is, was cooked by Wildlings. Some of these walls are standing, thanks to Wildlings…”

Lady Cerwyn reddened, and Lord Glover huffed. “I suppose her ladyship would give them our castles and keeps as well!”

“Perhaps I should! Perhaps I should give them over to Freefolk families who know how to be loyal!” Sansa snapped. Instantly, she realized she’d gone too far. She felt Jon’s gloved hand clutching hers gently.

“Sansa…” he said. He looked very much like his wolf, Ghost, then. His eyes somehow both pleading and demanding at once. Sansa squeezed his hand back and sat.

Jon rose and called the hall to order. His voice could be very powerful when he really used it. His bird squawked _Snow! Snow! Snow!_ In seconds, the tumult that had built up in the hall died down.

“My lords and ladies. Lady Stark and I both understand your apprehension. Many of you remember the damage done by Wildling raiders, or at least heard stories of such. But I see a number of faces here who bent the knee to those who did worse to my sister and our family…”

His eyes scanned the room then, and Sansa saw many in the crowd shrink in their seats.

“I mean not to shame anyone, or remove anyone from their ancestral home. But this war has cost us much that the Freefolk might help us replenish, and in the war to come, the Great War, we all need these people, and they _are people_. We must make space for them, such that I am willing to overlook any treason in exchange for offering a place to those of the Freefolk who are willing to adapt to our ways. Should we send them back north, as I see some suggesting, they become meat for the army of the Others. That is our reality. The Freefolk have proven themselves not only brave warriors, but skilled craftsmen and huntsmen, and most importantly, they are living members of this realm.”

The Freefolk burst into a loud din of approval, but still, Lord Glover, and now Mors Crowfood stood up.

“You speak of the realm…is this the realm you swore to protect as a man of the Night’s Watch?” Glover said with a great deal of self-satisfaction. “Suppose you explain what you are doing here, having broken your vows and deserted the Watch, with your head still intact?”

Sansa had been dreading this moment. Before the gathering, she had gone to Jon’s room to try and convince him to flee. Val had been with him, she noted, but she knew it was no use asking about it. They were obviously lovers, and that was their business. She just wished Jon would be a bit more discreet. There were many places in the castle in which to carry on in secret with a paramour…especially now. Sansa had taken brief notice of all of them. There was no need for her to be in his room, where any servant might wander by. But they had already had this conversation, and Sansa had something more urgent to suggest.

She feared deeply for Jon. Rumors of his madness were beginning to circulate. Whatever was in the scroll from Robb would most likely make him even more of a target than deserting the Watch had made him. _Open it,_ she had begged. _Open it, take what’s yours, and then sail to Braavos! Or Lys!_ Sansa see that he got Robb’s effects and would send gold, supplies, anything he needed. Petyr could secure him a ship. He could take Ghost. Jon refused, however, citing the war with the Dead as always and insisting that the scroll had to be opened by a neutral party in view of the Lords, namely Stannis. _Let Lord Stannis stay here and you go…we have him and the Knights of the Vale and the Freefolk._ Jon only shook his head. _No Sansa…this is my war. I have to stay and fight…._ But how could he fight if they took his head?

Lord Glover crossed his arms over his massive chest then, and several other Lords muttered ayes. Ghost growled almost inaudibly, and the hair on his enormous neck stood up, to the fearful notice of a few. Jon looked at Stannis and Stannis nodded. He took a breath, and explained how he came to forswear his vows. At first, the tale was as Sansa had expected. Jon had earned the respect of his brothers, becoming Lord Commander, but had been moved to attack Ramsay Bolton by a letter threatening him and others, including, naturally Arya. _Of course_ , Sansa thought. _Always spoiling everything_. She shook her head.

But then, the story grew horrifying. Then bizarre. Then unbelievable. It simply wasn’t to be credited. A man cannot die, his body burned, then come back piece by piece from the dead. These wights, they were just animals, mindless drones. Jon breathed and spoke and ate and wept. It couldn’t be. But then Stannis said his wife and her knights had seen it with their own eyes. Numerous Wildlings said they’d seen it too, including the Princess. Ser Devan. Satin Flowers had seen, and so had several brothers of the Watch. Val stood up, drawing the amazed eyes of the entire hall. She had a way of doing that.

“Show them, commander,” was all she said.

Jon looked at her in silent understanding, and threw back his cloak, inducing his bird to fly up into the rafters. He slowly opened the buttons of his black jerkin, and undid the laces of his shirt. Glaring pink against the white of his abdomen were nearly a dozen grisly scars that might have been made by daggers or swords or even spears. Sansa felt fried potatoes rising in her throat. She put her hand to her mouth and swallowed. Tears blurred her vision. The entire hall became like a poppy dream. She looked at Harrold, whose jaw hung wide open in a stare of disbelief. Sansa leapt up and ran to her brother, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Oh my dear brother,” she cried. “ _Tell me it is a prank…only a prank.”_

Jon only hushed her gently and patted her head. Stannis stood up and held up Robb’s scroll. The bird’s cries of _Snow!_ rang down from the ceiling. It took some time, but the noise in the hall died down. Jon buttoned himself up and sat. Sansa could not stop crying. Harrold put his arm around her to comfort her, but he was as pale as snow himself.

“Lords and Ladies, these are incredible times. The game has changed, there is no doubt about that, but the fact remains of this scroll bearing the seal of Robb Stark, lately your king. Lady Stark and Jon Snow have asked me to break the seal and read the contents with you, the representatives of the North as witness.”

The sound of the wax seal breaking was deafening in the silence that hung over the hall.

“The scroll bears the signatures of Robb Stark and a Maester Cordry of the Citadel, and reads as follows,” Stannis said, and took a sip of wine. “I, Robb of House Stark, trueborn son of Eddard Stark and King in the North, so solemnly express that, should I die without issue…”

Stannis paused then and seemed to scan over what remained of the letter two or three times. He glanced very briefly at Jon, his cold eyes gleaming like polished steel, before clearing his throat and continuing.

“…I bequeath my crown, the Kingdom of the North, and all the rights and privileges thereof to Jon Snow, bastard son of Eddard Stark …”

The hall seemed to gasp collectively. There was a ringing in Sansa’s ears and then she heard nothing. Not the final words, _and my half-brother_ , said by Stannis. Not the horrid black bird screeching _King! King! King!_ Not her own heart beating. Suddenly the hall seemed to come alive with fluttering dark wings, scattering feathers everywhere, darkening the light of the torches, covering all their faces in blackest black. _King! King!_ She thought she smiled a lady-like smile of congratulations at her bastard brother, but she wasn’t sure. She had Harrold’s hand in hers. _Sansa, sweetheart are you_ …She caught the eye of Jon’s bird, and realized he was laughing at her…the louse-infested monster was laughing at her! _Darling, you’re breaking my fingers…_

Sansa lifted her cup and drank down her wine to the last drop. _Smile, Sansa. Smile like you always do._

[1] Knauf, Daniel. _Carnivale_ , Season 1, Episode 1: “Milfay.” HBO, 2003.

[2] Cleese, John & Charles Crichton. _A Fish Called Wanda_ , MGM, 1988.


	2. Book Three Part Three Chapters 4 & 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon hesitates to claim his inheritance, but Val is having none of it and consults the Old Gods. Bran comes home, but his brother doesn't recognize him for good reason. The Raven makes Jon king, a first move in the game. The Three-Eyed Raven sees all: including Arya in a dark place, and Dany in an even darker one.

Chapter 4: KON

Val tossed a pile of furs aside and rifled through the chest in which the servants had piled her things, muttering curses in the old tongue to herself.

“What are you looking for?” Jon asked, not sure if she was looking for anything at all or just looking to make a clatter.

“My shield!”

“Why?”

She whipped around and shot Jon an icy glare. He understood. She and her kinsmen had kept uncharacteristically calm in the hall, even while the Northern Lords had hurled insult after insult their way. Sansa’s speech in their defense had gone some way toward soothing the sting, and for that, Jon was truly grateful to his sister. Robb’s will had likely raised their spirits even further, but Jon could not accept rule of the North – not like this. How quickly the smile on Val’s lovely lips had faded.

Jon had felt an exhilarating joy when he heard the words – even more so when he took the parchment in his hands and read them himself. Robb’s hand – so much neater and more dignified than his, but just as succinct as far as verbiage – had brought the memory of their writing lessons with Maester Luwin flooding into his mind. Robb’s upper case R with its curls and flourishes took forever to get right, but Maester Luwin wasn’t so hard on Jon, knowing a bastard would have limited use for writing anyway. Jon’s upper case J was just a curved strike of ink against the parchment, and yet he always ended up with ink all over his fingers, while Robb’s were as clean as when the lesson began. Sometimes Jon missed him so much he couldn’t swallow. _Let him rule in my stead, and his sons after him…_ Robb had written, followed by a perfect, kingly signature.

Jon had let a smile cross his face for only a moment before seeing the look of confusion and dismay on Sansa’s face. She was right, of course. When the noise in the hall had settled down enough for him to be heard, Jon rolled the parchment back up and shook his head.

“My lords and ladies…this is a mistake,” he had said, his joy withering into dust. “My brother wrote this will when he thought my brothers dead and our sisters lost. Had he known Bran and Rickon lived, he would not have made such a declaration.”

He looked to his wife then, and saw her features darken. The other Freefolk, Tormund and his sons among the loudest, expressed their disagreement, booing and spitting. Of course the Freefolk would benefit greatly if Jon ruled the North. If he didn’t, they couldn’t be sure at all if they would ever have a place here. Then again, Jon wouldn’t be sure he had a place either.

The Liddle and Mors Umber conferred for a moment before they stood up. They addressed Stannis, who had been silent in response to the will and Jon’s refusal.

“King Stannis,” Mors said. “Those of us who pledged fealty to you await your response to this, that we might follow your instruction.”

Stannis responded, but faced Jon as he did. “My claim on the Iron Throne depended on the end of the Targaryen line. Daenerys Targaryen and now this Griff make a stronger claim, and while Young Griff hasn’t produced proof of his lineage, I expect he will attempt so upon this upcoming visit. And if not, there is no disputing Daenerys, or her dragons of which it is said she has three…” A cacophony arose in the hall, but Stannis’s firm raised voice quickly quashed it. “Therefore my crown is relinquished. The Targaryens have their name at their advantage, and a great deal more to bargain with.”

Stannis had pointed a finger at Jon then, and faced the crowd in the hall. “Give this man the crown, and the North will have at least one chip to put before you when this Griff comes to the game. Without a battle-tested king, you come to the table beggars.”

Amid the rising clamor, Torghen, the old Flint, stood up. “Brandon Stark is crippled – unable to bear sons. Rickon, if he is indeed alive, is no more than eight. Lady Sansa furthermore, is a woman, and married to the Vale besides…no offense to my Lord Hardyng and my Lady. Truth be told, only Jon Snow is an acceptable replacement for King Robb…”

Several of the Lords had hollered _hear, hear_ , and looked as if to raised their swords, and not only the Flints, but the Manderlys, Mormonts, the Reeds and Liddles as well.

Jon put up a hand, and speaking as much to Stannis as to the hall, said, “Lady Sansa has suffered much in this war. Trials that only a woman knows and can endure, and taken charge of this castle’s needs with the dignity befitting the Starks of old. She is the trueborn daughter of Ned Stark, and it is she who should be your queen.”

There was some sniggering in the hall then, and further chatter. Jon looked at Sansa, whose cheeks were bright red, though her eyes were thankful. It was then that Maege Mormont had stood up with the help of her daughter Alysanne, on whose shoulder she leaned. “I most hardily agree,” she said. “Lady Sansa is a true leader and a true Stark. I’ve no objection to pledging my fealty to a queen rather than a king…and not just for the obvious reason. I know for a fact that half the women in this hall could rule alone better than a dozen together of you cunts with cocks!”

Jon let himself smile, while those in the hall with senses of humor let out a burst of laughter – especially the Freefolk.

“But I fought beside Robb Stark,” Lady Mormont continued, “I took the scroll from his hand with a full heart, and I can say with every certainty what he wanted: for Jon Snow to rule the North after him. It matters not that he’s a bastard…Ned Stark’s blood runs in his veins. As Robb was, so Jon Snow is my king, from this day, until my last day![1]”

More _hear, hears_ , rang forth, and more swords were pulled from scabbards, though there were objections as well. Jon heard the word bastard among the din more than once. Ryswell. Cerwyn. He memorized the scent of the traitors in the room.

“He took Winterfell back from Ramsay…let’s not forget that,” Lord Manderly called out breathless. “At the least, he should rule until Rickon comes of age, should he not? We need a true leader…one who, no offense meant to Lord Brandon, can stand on his two feet against the Lannisters. And whatever fresh hell comes from North of the Wall…”

“My Lords,” Jon said. “Your support moves me greatly. I would be proud to be your king, but I must at least consult my brother Bran, the true Lord of Winterfell. Only with his blessing can I accept the crown.”

There had been a moment of noisy conference among the crowd. In the end, the Lords had determined it fair to wait for Bran’s response. Jon had glanced over at Satin, who seemed amazed, his dark blue eyes darting around the hall. Val’s eyes were like daggers. She bit her lips, and her nostrils flared.

When they had retreated to his cell, she said no words but immediately began the search for her shield, though Jon had no inkling as to why, and Val didn’t answer the question. Jon bent and reached under the bed, where her new iron shield had been stowed. When he presented it, Val stood upright, her golden braid unfurling like a whip.

“Well that’s a stupid place for it,” she said, and snatched it from his hands. She wasn’t wrong about that. She began buffing the smooth inside of the shield with a piece of lambskin in a furious circular motion.

“Are you angry with me?” Jon asked.

Val stopped polishing for a moment and sighed heavily, resting the shield across her lap.

“Why did you not accept the crown? I don’t understand,” she said, not unkindly.

“It’s like I told the Lords. I don’t think it’s right to take it.”

“So your brother’s written word means nothing? Why do you southern folk have all these written contracts…all these vows… if they can be thrown aside so easily?”

“We aren’t southern…” Jon pouted. She loved to throw that at him. So did Tormund.

“Your sister told me all about it…how your fat king left your father in charge of the realm, but the lioness just ripped his will into pieces. Sansa was betrothed to the prince by solemn vow, but circumstances changed, and he threw her aside for another…”

“King Joffrey was a brute. He would have made her miserable…”

“Did the ink change shape when your brothers turned up alive? Did it fade or turn invisible? Or do the words still read what they did when your King brother wrote them?”

Set lay the shield on the bed with the inside up, went to a pile of her belongings that she had created in her outrage, and began tossing through it again.

“When did you and Sansa have this little talk? I had no idea you two were sharing such stories together…” Jon didn’t know why that made him nervous.

Val unwrapped a bundle of vole fur to reveal a simple little box made of pinewood. “You had this country in your hands, my love, and you let it slip through your fingers…without conferring on the subject with me, your own wife.” Val carefully lifted the lid of the box, and even more carefully lay it on the bed next to the shield.

“The Freefolk have no kings, so what do you care?”

Val faced Jon and said, “The Freefolk have no king because we let him die.”

The hairs on Jon’s neck rose. He hung his head and rounded his shoulders as he did as a reflex now whenever he felt shame.

“Because of your Crow’s vows, Mance Rayder is dead. After all my sister and I did to make him take his place at the head of our people. All the sacrificing. All the offerings we gave to the Old Gods…”

Val’s eyes were wet. Jon went to her, wanting to appease her but not knowing how. He removed his glove and placed a hand on her neck under her ear. Her skin was hot.

“Would you have me steal my brother’s birthright?” Jon whispered.

“This right by birth is a _southern_ law. By the law of my Gods, you should be leading our people…and your people. Maybe all people. I don’t know. Only the Gods know…and it’s no right of yours to dispute them.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jon said.

“You know nothing!”

Jon shivered. It was a thing his dead lover Ygritte always said to him. Val turned away from him and went to her little box on the bed. Jon stepped closer to see her holding an egg, about twice the size of a large hen’s egg. Its shell was a ruddy brown with black speckles. Val pulled her dirk from its sheath on her belt and tapped its edge on the shell to break it. When it opened, a viscous, steaming black liquid poured forth and fell upon the shield. A foul smell like rotten meat filled the room, stinging Jon’s eyes.

“What in the hell?” He put a hand over his nose and mouth.

Val took off her coat and pulled up the sleeve of her shirt, then ran the blade across her arm near the wrist, causing a thin stream of blood to rise. She squeezed a couple of drops into the vile egg yolk, and held her hand out to Jon.

“Give me your wrist,” she demanded.

“What’s happening?” Jon asked.

“I promised myself to you, Jon Snow, so you must trust me.”

Jon offered his bared arm, though a chill crept through him. Val did not cut him deeply – only enough to produce three big drops of blood. When the drops hit the shield, Val’s blood and the egg yolk began to boil. Val spit onto the mixture[2], and a mist rose up, enveloping her face. Jon stepped back away from it, but Val did not move. A white veil grew over her eyes, and she stood still in the fog.

“Val,” Jon said, worried. “Val…speak to me.”

Val did speak, but not in her own sweet voice. It was a male voice, or a choir of many male voices, sinister and rasping. She lifted her arm and pointed at Jon’s heart, saying _wolf prince, lord of seven kingdoms, open your eyes, the dragons will come for you, and the wall is breaking…breaking._ The voices grew louder and louder, crushing Jon’s eardrums. In a panic, Jon seized her by the arm and pulled her to him.

“Val!”

She collapsed into his arms, unconscious, eyes fluttering. The fog dissipated, and the dark liquid of the shield had burned away, taking the foul odor with it.

Chapter 5: Raven With Three Eyes

“I can never be Lord of Winterfell. I can never be Lord of anything…I am the Three-Eyed Raven.”

Not the truth. But not a lie either.

To have to kill Prince Jon will be a shame. If only you would love him less, he would have a fighting chance. Love was a winding trap, a labyrinth of lies of which I had to free myself. We would have been a terrifying and dangerous force, deadly as winter, powerful as a storm on the sea, destructive as a fire out of control in a dry forest. She is in Pentos now, having waited for Dany. She doesn’t know Dany has tired of playing with her. She will construct a new game…this Quaithe. But until then.

“We don’t know what that means…” Sansa, gentle and still trusting. Yet she will look at herself in a glass and see everything fading and slipping away.

“It’s difficult to explain.”

Winterfell was warm…a feeling I have not felt in centuries. Warmth on skin, making the sweat seep. Bringing a sweet kind of stillness that doesn’t need to be forced, bitten into. Sheara’s breath on my neck. (But her hands were cold.) Sansa and Jon have restored so much in so little time. Even what was never between them has been rebuilt. We will need to break it down before it gets too strong. Worse, Dany will have seen the full force of the Others’ army, a great black mass against the white snow, just as we have. She has flown over the Narrow Sea, ice collecting in her lashes, frost gathering on her black armor like a tiny forest of death. She will have stared with wide purple eyes, seen the transparent figures on their eight-legged beasts, making her red-winged black beast retreat, his fiery heart keeping her warm and alive until they will have landed outside the cursed Wall at Long Barrow. Mighty Drogon, the regulator, the never outdone.

“Try…please. For me?” Sansa beautiful. All white steel and the smell of lavender.

Her tears soaked our collar when we arrived. Jon too wept and held us so tight our ribs might have cracked. But our smell wasn’t right, as it wouldn’t be. I must not feel you when I am near him…it will unlock the door. Jon’s hair on end. His ears would flatten against his head. His wolf will growl and bare his teeth. Mighty Ghost of the silent slaughter. Jon backed away, and will not speak to us. Soon Sansa will have wondered why it didn’t upset us. Jon with whom you were so close. The Northmen love the Lady Wolf and the Prince…not so much them, but what was – just like you. Little Sansa and young Jeyne practicing the new dance they had learned before the Steward and Castellan and their wives. Forget-me-nots in their little braids. Jon wrestling with his auburn-haired brother in the yard. Swinging you as a toddler up, up into the air and swooping downward again. Jon taught you what it felt like to fly first. I would have given anything to have had a brother like this prince, damn you.

“It means I can see everything. Everything that’s ever happened to everyone. Everything that’s happening right now…”

Jon steps forward so silently that, if we were not who we are, we would never know he was there. The way a wolf approaches the hand holding a juicy morsel, hungry but untrusting.

“Then you can see the Others. Where they are. What they’re doing,” he asks.

We know who his mother is as well, but he does not ask us now.

“It’s all pieces really. Fragments. I need to learn to see better.”

Not the truth. Not a lie either.

You will have seen the witch, your father’s sister, weaving her magic against enemies of the Starks. You will have seen her struggling like a wild animal in a trap against the future laid out for her. You will have seen her death. Pieces. Fragments. Truth has always been grey in color. Winterfell colors.

Dany will have stumbled through the blinding snow to the gate. Terror of the dragon will rend the Watch, running in circles. Some kneeling, some running. The gate will have opened, and Dany, shivering, will be led inside. She will reel some when she takes off her helm. Tears will thaw and fall down her cheeks. Her numb lips will fumble with the words.

Time is red and black in color.

“When the long night comes again, I need to be ready.[3] I cannot lead the North. Jon must lead this fight against the Others, for they are coming. He is your protector, and your King…”

“King!” Jon’s raven will concur.

Not the truth. Not a lie either. A dagger driven further into a sister’s back. The golden light she has followed so long grows more distant, yet she will walk toward it with a singular ambition. We will deal with Petyr Baelish later. We will play with Young Griff.

There’s no way to stop the wild one from arriving. Like Dany, she is the inevitable. Even now, she is approaching the peak of all her horrors. She has forgiven the Hound who is not the Hound anymore. It is he who has shown her the truth. She will find the Freys gone from her uncle’s castle, and the thing that was her mother at the head of its table. Deep in the woods, she will be rocking back and forth against some old oak and whispering through the tears: _Cersei, Joffrey, Dunsen, Polliver, Chiswyck, Raff the Sweetling, the Tickler, the Mountain, Amory Lorch, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Lord Bolton, Lord Tywin, Walder Frey, Cersei, Joffrey, Dunsen, Polliver, Chiswyck, Raff the Sweetling, the Tickler, the Mountain, Amory Lorch, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Lord Bolton, Lord Tywin, Walder Frey, Cersei, Joffrey_ …until the tears drown her voice. Sandor Clegane will say nothing when he pulls her against him and holds her not too tightly. Fists will pound his ribcage and then stop. Sobs will ring out and then stop.

Nowhere now to go but home. All roads lead to Winterfell.

Jon kneels before us, his eyes sad and confused. “Is this truly your will?”

“Yes,” we tell him. Sansa’s sweet-smelling and quiet rage.

“Please,” Jon whispers, too quiet for anyone to hear. “Find my brother. You find my brother and bring him back.”

He doesn’t know who he is talking to, but he knows it isn’t you. He is noble and gifted. I am sorry he has to die. His wife, the Wildling, is gifted also. She has strong opinions about a cripple being lord over her husband. She can smell a king like a snow cat smells blood, and just now, her unborn child is feeding upon her patience. You know nothing, Val of the Freefolk.

Next sundown, the hall will gather and the declaration will be made. Swords will be raised in the air, and shouts of _the king in the north_ will ring up through the rafters. Harrold Hardyng will clutch his lady wife’s hand, and they will exchange glances. Watering seeds of resentment. He hates the prince. At a word, he will do my bidding.

Jon will stand before the North, some of whom are plotting even now. Jon knows this, as the Wolf can smell the hunter from afar. A crown will be placed on his head with its nine spikes of hammered bronze. He will wear it until the crowd disperses…then he will cast it aside. Wolves, as a rule, do not like things put on top of their heads.

_The King in the North!_

The men of the Watch at Long Barrow have gathered furs to bring the princess that she might warm herself. (Warmth…how long it’s been!) They brought her mulled wine to sip. They thought her in shock. She stared ahead and mumbled something they did not hear.

“Beg pardon your grace?” Emmett said.

“You have to get out of here… _now!_ ”

Even now, the Watch is melting, crumbling. Dany’s truth aside. All roads lead to Jon.

Is the past keeping you warm, my friend?

[1] David Benioff & D.B. Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 6, Episode 10: “The Winds of Winter,” 2016, HBO.

[2] Reynolds, Kevin. _Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves_ , Warner Bros. 1991.

[3] Benioff and Weiss, _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 3: “The Queen’s Justice,” HBO, 2017.


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